


Touch of the Wind

by punk_rock_yuppie



Series: Sugar and Derry [1]
Category: IT (2017)
Genre: AU, F/M, First Kiss, Fluff, Getting Together, Humor, M/M, Multi, Polyamory, coffee shop AU, mild pining, valentine's day fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-15
Updated: 2018-02-15
Packaged: 2019-03-18 18:49:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,882
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13687647
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/punk_rock_yuppie/pseuds/punk_rock_yuppie
Summary: All the single employees at Sugar and Derry have to work on Valentine's Day.Richie is less than pleased. Stan is suffering.





	Touch of the Wind

**Author's Note:**

> hal mentioned that all the single people at her work got scheduled to work on valentines day, and the groupchat got to talking about the fic possibilities for that, and then this happened. this is a three part series, detailing three different ships and how they got together. thanks to cathect for betaing all of them!
> 
> on to part one--stan and richie! enjoy!

_Tuesday, February 6th_

“What the fuck!?”

Stan looks over from wiping down the counter; he pins Richie with an unimpressed glare, but his friend doesn’t cave. Instead, Richie continues staring down at the schedule as his lips mouth the shifts over and over. With a roll of his eyes, Stan returns to cleaning until he steps back with a sigh. The counter is as close as it ever gets to sparkling, now, and Stan tosses the rag toward the sink.

“What’s wrong with you?” He finally asks as he turns back to Richie, who hasn’t moved away from the schedule. Stan gets close enough to peer over the other boy’s shoulder, and follows the days until he gets to where Richie’s finger is pointing.

Wednesday.

“What about it?” Stan peels himself away from Richie and sets about wiping down the machines. It’s close enough to closing he doesn’t worry about people coming in, and he’d rather not get out late again tonight, like he has the last four nights.

“We’re working!” Richie finally shouts.

“So?”

“You, me, Eddie, and Bill!” He rattles off a few other names, some newer people Stan hasn’t care enough to get to know yet. “We’re all working! You know what we all have in common?”

“We have terrible taste in friends and jobs?” Stan retorts.

Richie groans. “We’re all _single_.”

Stan pauses in his cleaning. He looks over his shoulder at Richie, who’s finally pulled himself away from the schedule and is leaning against the counter. His arms are crossed and his face is a little pink and he’s frowning like someone just told him Hanukkah has been cancelled. Stan raises an eyebrow, and can’t help but grin in the face of Richie’s upset. The uptick of his lips makes Richie whine again, although he finally starts cleaning up, too.

It’s silent for a while, save for the scrape of sponges against mugs and the wind rattling around outside. Stan almost thinks Richie’s gotten over it—and Stan can admit it’s a dick move, but it’s pretty funny, too—until they’re flipping the sign on the door from _OPEN_ to _closed_. As Stan locks the door and Richie heads toward the lights, Stan catches Richie’s sour muttering echoing through the empty store—

“Can’t believe our fucking manager scheduled all of us _single_ people to work on _Valentine’s Day_.”  

 

 

 

_Thursday, February 8th_

“I think you’re making this a way bigger deal than it needs to be,” Eddie says, even though he looks like he’s on the verge of pouting. “It’s honestly kind of funny.” He insists.

“That’s what I said,” Stan chimes in as he brings his coffee to his lips. They’re all gathered around their tiny apartment dining table, and in the center of the table rests a photocopy of the schedule. Richie sits to Stan’s right and groans again. “Stop that,” Stan chides with a roll of his eyes.

“Maybe _some_ of us had plans!” Richie snipes back, and Stan kicks him in the shin in retaliation.

“You and I both know your _‘plans’_ were going to be getting drunk and binging discounted Valentine’s candy.”

Richie recoils under Stan’s stare, but still doesn’t let up. “It’s still dumb.”

Stan shakes his head. “I don’t know what to tell you.” He stands then, and brings his cup to the sink. “You’re working. We’re _all_ working. Deal with it.”

Eddie looks up from his cereal slowly, and Stan inwardly sighs. There’s a glint in his eyes that speaks to nothing but trouble. “I’ve gotta go,” he says suddenly. He stands and knocks into the table, milk spilling over the edge of the bowl. Eddie doesn’t pay it any mind as he dives for the door and gets his shoes on in the blink of an eye. “Don’t wait up!”

The door slams, and Stan brings a paper towel over to the mess on the table.

Richie’s staring after Eddie with a furrowed brow, and Stan flicks him between the eyes. “Hey!”

“Let it go,” Stan tells him. “At least you and I are working together,” he adds, a little softer.

Richie’s expression brightens minutely. “Yeah,” he agrees.

 

 

 

_Monday, February 12th_

“What do you mean you don’t work Wednesday?”

Stan rolls over and hides his face in his pillow. Richie’s already impossibly loud voice carries in their impossibly small apartment, and Stan might just kill him for it.

“What do you _mean_ you and Mike are dating?!”

Stan sits up and rubs the sleepsand from his eyes. Beside him, the clock reads _6:55am_ , so at least he’s only up five minutes early. Richie and Eddie both have an awful habit of being up at early hours—Richie just never seems to sleep, Eddie is somehow a _morning person_ —and more than once Stan has been woken an hour or more before his alarm.

He trudges sleepily around his room for pajamas then meanders his way into the hall. He passes Richie, who’s pacing in their miniscule living room, and listens with half an ear. Stan brushes his hair, then his teeth, then his teeth again, all while Richie shouts into his phone.

“You and Mike _aren’t_ dating, Eddie! No, no, you can’t keep a secret worth _shit_ , there’s no way you’ve been _hiding_ this.” A break in Richie’s rambling, then, “god, Eds, you’re so full of shit. I fucking hate you.”

Stan comes out of the bathroom as Richie tucks his phone away in his pocket. “What was that all about?” Stan asks as he wanders to their busted-but-still-functioning Keurig.

“Eddie and Mike are _dating_.”

Stan nods slowly, consideringly, as he takes in the information. “No they’re not.”

“No, they _aren’t_!” Richie shouts in agreement. “But they convinced our fucking manager they are, so they could have the night off!”

Stan hums thoughtfully as his coffee finishes. He plucks the mug from under the spout and brings it to his lips. He blows a cooling breath over it and turns to face Richie. “Why didn’t we think of that?”

Richie stops in his frantic pacing. “What, pretend to date?”

“Yeah.”

“Right, because people would _totally_ buy that.” Richie snorts, grins. “I’m gonna kill Eddie, though.”

“No, you’re not.”

Richie looks at Stan like he’s raining on the proverbial parade—which, Stan is. That’s sort of what he does, especially when Richie gets into a mood like this. “No, I’m not,” he concedes, pouting.

 

 

 

_Tuesday, February 13th_

“How are you not outraged about this!?” Richie asks Bill as he carries over a tray of pastries. Bill stands at the espresso machine and shrugs. “Don’t you shrug at me, William, I want an answer.”

“It’s not like I h-had any puh-plans anyway, Richie.” Bill tells him, bored. “Muh-money is money.”

“Bill’s right. Besides, the heating bill is going to be awful, we’ll need the extra money.” Stan adds, turning toward the door as it chimes. “Hi, welcome to Sugar and Derry, what can I get you?” He listens to the customer’s order, replies idly to the customer’s question ( _“no, sir, we don’t serve frappuccinos here”_ ), all to the tune of Richie’s unhappy muttering in the background.

After a brief string of customers, Stan and Bill trade spots. It’s the tell-tale downtime—just after lunch is over, and before the off-work rush begins. Bill’s stutter is better than it used to be, but he still struggles in crowds, especially crowds of douchebags who come here for the hipster coffee.

“Suh-Stan?”

He looks over to Bill, then to the door when it chimes. Two people are filing in, hands clasped between them. “You’ll be fine, Bill. If anyone else comes in, I’ll take over, okay?”

Bill bites his bottom lip but nods. “Yeah, o-okay.”

Stan shuffles to the side a bit and watches from the corner of his eye. The couple approaching the counter are almost-regulars. In often, but not often enough that Stan has learned their names. The boy is broad across the shoulders with dusty blond hair, round cheeks and a wide grin. The girl on his arm is just a few inches taller with bright red hair and freckles in abundance. Stan’s gaze flicks from them to Bill, and swallows a snort of laughter.

Bill is staring at them both, slack-jawed. His lower lip hangs open, still bitten red, and there’s a flush on his cheeks. He’s lucky the couple are both staring at the menu above his head.

Stan brushes past him and shoulder-checks him lightly. “You’ll catch flies,” he scolds. Bill startles and slams his hand against the tipjar, knocking it over and sending a few coins scattering across the counter.

The girl startles first and immediately moves to gather the coins in her hands. “Sorry about that!” She exclaims.

Bill shakes his head furiously. “N-no, it was muh-me, I’m s-suh—sorry.” He swallows after the sentence is out, and holds out the tip jar for the coins. The girl, with a polite grin, tilts her hand so they topple into the mason jar. “Did you n-need help deciding?” Bill asks after he sets down the jar.

The boy looks over now and nods. “Please,” he says, sounding more than a little desperate. “I’ve been here a couple times, but I think you guys changed the menu.”

“Yeah,” Richie says as he bursts from the kitchen, another tray of pastries in his arms. “Owner loves to keep it _fresh_ , or some shit like that.”

Stan tries to catch Richie’s eye so he can shoot him a disapprovingly glare, but the girl laughs and draws Richie’s attention instead. There’s a split second where Richie looks like he might lay on the charm, but Stan watches the realization dawn over his face: not only is the girl leaning on the boy, their hands still linked, but Bill is _still_ staring more than is really polite.

Richie finally looks over at Stan and grins. “Bill is great at suggestions, he’ll help you out.” He bumps his hip against Bill as he sets the tray beside the pastry case.

Bill’s cheeks are even redder, but he’s smiling.

 

 

 

_Wednesday, February 14th_

The morning of Valentine’s Day, Stan finds Eddie in the kitchen.

“Have you been hiding from Richie?” Stan asks, even though his brain isn’t fully online yet and he hasn’t had his coffee yet. It’s been two days since he last saw their other roommate, and Eddie looks sheepishly ashamed. “He won’t actually kill you, you know.”

“I know,” Eddie snaps back, indignant. “I just—I have actually been spending time with Mike.”

Stan makes a quiet noise of surprise. He taps a few buttons on their Keurig and waits. “That’s good,” he says eventually. “So are you two actually dating?”

Eddie blushes. “No.”

“Not yet?” Stan guesses with a smirk.

Eddie groans. “I hate you.”

Stan shrugs. “It’s a gift.” He turns back to the machine and takes his cup from the tray. “I didn’t know you liked Mike,” he adds, almost absently.

“I—I mean, he’s cute.”

“Of course.” Stan agrees as he leans against the kitchen counter. Eddie sighs, sounding distressed, and starts to putter about. As always, he goes for the dishwasher first. It’s full, and he starts to unload it with an almost frantic fervor. “I just didn’t know you liked him.”

“He’s…” Eddie trails off while staring at a bowl. He’s already checked that it’s clean, so now he’s just holding it in both hands and staring at the decorative pattern inside. “He’s really sweet, and his family owns a farm, did you know that? He works there, too, along with the shop. _And_ he’s gonna go to college in the fall.”

Stan raises his eyebrows as he takes a sip of his coffee.

“He’s really great.” Eddie says into the bowl.

“I’m happy for you.” Stan side-steps around the dishwasher to head for the dining room table.

“What if he doesn’t really want to date me?” Eddie asks as he finally opens a cupboard and puts the bowl away.

“He does,” Stan says simply. “Would you fake-date someone you weren’t at least _a little_ interested in?”

Eddie tilts his head from side to side, considering. “Bill told me that Richie told him that you said you and Richie should’ve tried it, the fake-dating thing.”

Stan nods. “I did.”

“So, you’re saying you’re at least a _little_ bit interested in Richie?” Eddie pauses in putting the dishes away and looks at Stan from across their kitchen-dining room combo.

Stan scowls into his coffee.

 

 

Bill, Richie, and Stan walk in for their shift together at a quarter to four; it’s not especially busy, but there’s more people than they typically see on a Wednesday night. Most of the people are couples; all the tables-for-two are taken, each with a little fake candle at the edge. Stan rolls his eyes but follows Bill and Richie toward the back.

They’re throwing on their aprons and tossing their bags into their lockers when Richie opens his mouth.

“If you complain tonight, I will not hesitate to lock you out when we get home. You can sleep on the doormat for all I care.” Stan looks up from tying his apron to see Bill and Richie both staring at him in surprise. Richie’s mouth snaps shut, though, and he doesn’t open it again.

Stan makes it to the floor first, and trades places with one of the new girls whose name he still doesn’t know. She takes off for the back, bumping into Bill along the way, and doesn’t even say sorry. Bill joins him at the espresso machine, and jostles Stan lightly.

“Wuh-what was that about?” He asks as they work.

“What was what about?” Stan replies.

“Snapping at Richie.” Bill looks over at him.

Stan rolls his eyes. “Richie has been complaining nonstop about having to work tonight, and I got tired of it. Is that so weird?” Stan asks as he steams the milk with a little more force than necessary. “I don’t want to listen to his whining all night.”

“Gee, Stan, you sure know how to make a guy feel special.”

Stan startles at Richie’s voice just behind him. He turns with a frown. Richie looks unimpressed, and faintly hurt. Stan feels a little bad, and shifts from foot to foot uncomfortably. “Richie—?”

“I’m just fucking with you, Stan.” Richie’s face splits into a grin and he claps Stan on the shoulder before heading towards the kitchen. “God, you’re easy.”

“Fuck you, Tozier!” Stan hisses, uncaring for the few scandalized gasps of nearby customers that heard him.

 

 

Stan looks up from wiping away a spill when the door chimes. Ben and Beverly walk in, holding hands yet again, but don’t seem to notice him at all, despite that fact that Stan is closest to the register. Instead, their necks are craned and their eyes are darting around, looking for something—or someone.

“Bill is on break,” he tells them, and they both jump. “He’ll be out in a few minutes.”

Beverly grins. “Perfect, we’ll just wait.”

“Don’t want me to get anything started for you two?” Stan asks as he watches them wander over to an empty table. The couples-rush died out an hour or so before, and nearly all of the tables are empty. There’s a few strays scattered about, but they’re all deeply engrossed in whatever they’re doing.

“Uh, how about just two black coffees?” Beverly calls back before turning to look at Ben across from her.

Stan shrugs and grabs two mugs. As they fill with the shop’s standard brew, he brings his microphone a little closer to his mouth. “Bill?”

_“What’s up?”_

“Your lovebirds are here.”

There’s a click, then a sputtering noise, interrupted by more clicks as Bill grabs and lets go of the microphone. Eventually, there’s silence, and then— _”what?!”_

“Your lovebirds,” Stan says again, unable to keep himself from grinning. “They’re waiting for you.” He’s barely finished the sentence when the door to the backroom swings open and Bill comes rushing out. Stan slides the two mugs of black coffee over, and nods toward where Ben and Beverly are sitting. “Go on.”

Bill hesitates for a moment. “I only have two minutes left on my break.”

Stan waves him off. “Go, if it gets busy I’ll call Richie up front.”

Bill grins. “Thanks S-Stan!” He grabs the mugs carefully, and practically skips over to the table. Stan watches him for a second as he gets settled; he watches Ben’s and Beverly’s faces light up in identical ways, both a little pink and a lot excited. Bill drags a chair over the another table and sits at the outer edge, and they start to talk.

“Well, that’s certainly happening.”

Stan startles and elbows Richie in the chest accidentally. “God, Tozier, don’t _do_ that.”

Richie just laughs and rubs at his sternum. “Sorry, Stan the Man.” He points over to the table. “So, that’s a thing now?”

“Yes,” Stan says. “I told him if we get busy I’ll just have you help me.”

Richie watches the table a little longer, then shrugs. “Yeah, okay.”

 

 

“You sh-sure?” Bill asks as his hands twist nervously in his apron.

“Totally sure, dude.” Richie gestures to the door. “Just flip the sign when you go. Stan and I can clean up, no problem.” Richie peers around Bill to where Ben and Beverly are standing just outside, waiting. “Have fun,” he says with a wink.

Bill groans, but he’s smiling. “I owe you wuh-one.” He tucks his apron into his messenger bag and darts to the door. He flips the sign as he goes, and locks it once he’s out. Richie watches the three of them through the glass for a moment, until they start walking down the sidewalk and they’re out of sight.

“Bill go with Ben and Beverly?” Stan asks as he comes out of the back.

Richie nods. “Figured you and I can handle this just fine.”

“Of course we can.”

They close together often, and they have a routine. Richie tackles the kitchen and the floors, tables, and pastry case. Stan takes care of everything else—the machines, the mugs, the sinks, countertops. It works, it’s easy, it’s swift.

“Stan, can I put the music back on? I’m gonna die.” Richie points frivolously at the ceiling.

Stan blinks; they never have the music on when they clean up for the night, because it usually never takes them very long. Plus, Richie has left it on a time or twelve when he’s closed with other people, and if he does it again he’ll probably get written up. Even with all that in mind, Stan nods.

“Sure.”

“Be right back.” Richie leans the mop up against the wall, even though he’s finished mopping and it would make more sense to bring it into the back with him. Stan just shrugs and goes back to wiping down the mugs, one at a time, before setting them on the drying rack.

Music filters over the speakers once more but at a higher volume than they usually have it. Typically they keep it low so that people can still chatter, and they can still hear customers’ orders. But now it’s just a little louder, and Richie’s already singing along as he strolls back onto the floor.

“Hey, Stan.”

“Hm?” He doesn’t look up from cleaning. Richie doesn’t say anything else—which isn’t unusual—so Stan doesn’t think anything of it until a hand is covering his and he nearly drops the mug he’s holding. “Richie?”

“C’mon, let’s dance.”

“What?”

Richie just grins, not at all put out by Stan’s flat tone. “It’s Valentine's Day, and we’re stuck here together. Dance with me, just a song or two.”

“We’ll get out late, Richie.”

“Who cares?”

Stan cares; Stan doesn’t especially like this job, but they all need the money. A faint wave of panic overtakes his chest for a second as he thinks about the manager scolding them, or worse: any of them losing this job. But it dissipates in seconds, and he shrugs.

“Why not,” he murmurs to himself as he comes around the counter. Richie’s already holding out a hand to him. When Stan slides his palm against Richie, he finds himself tugged close and Richie’s other hand clinging to his waist. “Jesus, Richie.”

“Just go with it,” Richie advises. They dance in slow circles, one-two-three-one-two-three; they aren’t exactly in time to the rhythm of the song but Stan can barely hear the music over the pounding of his heart in his ears. “So, uh, Eddie told me something pretty interesting today,”

Stan stiffens minutely but forces himself to keep dancing. “Hm?”

“Do I gotta say it?”

Stan laughs and shakes his head. “No, I think I know what this is about.” He can feel a blush searing across his cheeks.

“Why didn’t you ever say anything?”

“I tried. You literally laughed in my face, Richie.”

“I meant that more as a, uh, why would _you_ ever date _me_ kind of laugh. I think people would have a hard time believing that.”

Stan hums softly.

“Cuz I’ve been a little in love with you Stan, since like. Eighth grade.”

Stan snorts. “What?”

“I’m serious!” Richie insists. When Stan tries to look up at him, Richie looks anywhere but Stan. “I dunno. It was that summer.”

“Wasn’t that the summer we jumped off the quarry cliff naked?”

Richie’s blush burns so vibrantly, Stan can feel it against his own skin. “Er, yeah. But I mean, that’s not what made me fall in love with you. I think it was probably when you spit in Henry’s face.”

Stan blinks. “I’d forgotten about that.”

Richie grins. “It was fucking incredible.”

“Why didn’t _you_ ever say anything?” Stan counters. Idly, he thinks they’ve been dancing for a lot more than just one or two songs. But he doesn’t really care. It feels good to be close to Richie like this, finally.

“Again, with the whole _you_ would never date _me_ thing.”

Stan rolls his eyes. “Well, clearly that’s not true. So.”

“So,” Richie mimics.

Stan looks up again—Richie only has two inches on him but sometimes it feels like more—and Richie finally meets his eyes. Stan licks his lips once and readies himself to make the first move. He tilts his head back and leans closer and Richie closes the gap between them to kiss him softly. Despite expecting it, it still catches Stan off guard.

He sways a bit and Richie’s hand on his hip tightens. Richie holds him steady as they kiss, chaste and sweet and soft, until Stan has to pull back to breathe. Richie grins at him, looking similarly light-headed and flushed, and Stan feels giddy. They’ve stopped dancing and just stare at each other instead.

The song changes to something quicker, more upbeat, and it breaks the daze.

“We should finish up,” Stan admits softly.

Richie nods and lets go of Stan’s waist. He doesn’t unclasp their other hands, though; instead he uses the grip to guide Stan behind the counter again. “I’ll help with the machines. All my other stuff is done.”

They work in companionable quiet until Richie laughs, and Stan’s attention turns to him with a raised eyebrow.

“At least we won’t have to work on Valentine’s _next_ year.”


End file.
